Les Plesko student David Francis describes how he painstakingly wrote first novel.

Fifty good pages thrown away like pale toast, jettisoned because the edges didn’t burn.

I felt my heart sag, thump onto his [Plesko’s] butt-stained carpet and linger in the doorway. But he’d warned me my words on a page would break me down then mend me, “or not.” My heart gashed so it might heal. Or at least form scabs. Encouraging me to write toward the abyss where I sensed Les had truly been. The least I could do was crawl toward the edge, stare down into it, inch forward, chapters building.   -Continue-